


So, About “King Kong”

by thatsrightdollface



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Boxing, Character Study, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Luther's overwhelmed and having a rough time -- but he's trying, Scene Analysis, Spoilers, Support, Swearing, canon-typical relationships, mentions of boxing-related injuries, mentions of systemic racism, season 2 spoilers!!!, setting up for some hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: Let’s start with something simple: she gave him a troubled look, when she learned what people were calling his bare-knuckle boxing persona.  His newest alias.  You know.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves/Luther Hargreeves, mentions of others - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	So, About “King Kong”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!!! Season 2... @_@ whoa. I have a lot of feelings, and there are some scenes I’ve watched probably too many times, by now. I really feel like Luther would worry/think through a LOT of what happened in season 2, but I wanted to analyze this moment in particular, this time. A fic based around one (1) expression lol. Sorry, world. 
> 
> I’m also sorry for anything and everything I might’ve messed up, here/any mistakes I might’ve made. Thank you for reading. I hope you’re staying safe and doing as well as possible!!!

Let’s start with something simple: she gave him a troubled look, when she learned what people were calling his bare-knuckle boxing persona. His newest alias. You know. 

The look only lasted a second. She turned away, next, horrified and laughing at what relentless, insidiously hateful lies the TV announcer guy had to say about her... another symptom of the same _insidiously hateful_ racism soaked in deep through her experience here in the sixties — and not just here, he knew. He’d been reading through a pile of books about some of the ways systemic racism could show up back in 2019, when he’d been both A.) In the right decade and B.) Stuck for years alone on the moon. (As far as the “moon” thing went… uh, yeah, that was a long, depressing story. Actually, the “being in the wrong decade” thing was a long, depressing story, too. Go figure.)

She braced herself against the railing for a moment, and when she met his eyes again they had both moved well past his alias and on to other, more pressing thoughts. They were all wanted by the authorities, for one thing. Their pictures had been paraded across TV screens throughout Dallas, along with fear-mongering, along with rage. 

Honestly, though... he thought about the look she’d given him later, too. He thought about it in the car, on the way to deal with some of the more important stuff going on with their team, their raised-like-a-science-experiment-family, the former Umbrella Academy. He tried not to obsess over it, but after so long without seeing her — after he’d piled up such an impressive collection of things he didn’t know how to explain — 

I mean — 

It was hard _not_ to wonder what exactly she was thinking. Where they stood. 

It’d been a look like, _“Really?”_ or maybe _“So... what do you need to tell me?”_ Both a familiar sort of expression — they had known each other their whole lives, after all — and incredibly disorienting after... well. After everything. She learned something new about him, and her eyes were tense and careful, and her expression shifted like a question. Questions complicated things, even though he could still make her laugh, thank God. What sort of person did she see, when she looked at him — a different guy than the one who’d spent all the time he could at her side? Hopefully not. It used to be, he wouldn’t have even known how to keep secrets from her, and now he had so many questions of his own; he’d missed too much, and he hadn’t been there when she needed someone to grind bad guys into the dirt for her, by her side, backing her up. How people talked about his illegal boxing alias was one of the least painful explanations he had waiting to give her, except that it was all tangled together, really.

Shit. 

Where was he even supposed to start? With “something simple?” Sure. That’s hilarious. 

Nothing was simple, really, not “I love you” or even just _one expression_ , because nothing had ever been simple for either of them. He knew that now. He believed — he knew, he’d been told, he’d accepted — that they weren’t the kind of people who were ever gonna get to keep normal lives.

His name was Luther, and hers was Allison. Even _that_ wasn’t simple, really: they’d both had the last name “Hargreeves,” before now, but she’d become “Allison Chestnut,” he knew. Would she go back to Hargreeves, if they successfully stumbled their way home to their actual time? How could he go around asking something like that? Nevermind that so far as the team they’d been raised for was concerned, his name was Number One, and hers was Number Three. He was Spaceboy, and she was the Rumor. He was King Kong, to some people, when he stepped into the dusty bare-knuckle boxing ring. Sweaty and spitting blood, beer-stained under the city. She’d never been in his audience, at least so far as he knew. 

Allison probably didn’t know Luther’d worked as the body man for a gangster, lately — and how was he going to tell her about all that, about how he’d been fired, about how he’d been living? What did she suspect he’d been involved with, and what would she think about it? He lost the chance to explain himself on his own terms, when she learned the “bare-knuckle boxer with suspected mafia ties” was also linked to the idea of King Kong. Because, well, it meant they might've known something about him, more than a candid photo half-hidden behind someone else could let on... because of another long, depressing story. Because his blood was far enough away from human that he hadn’t even been able to give Allison a transfusion when she needed it. Simian DNA, space-gorilla, whatever. Did Allison think Luther had named _himself_ King Kong, despite any and all awful history, or was she wondering whether he’d let someone else put him on display? Did she think he was treating himself like a test-subject monster, or was the name just sort of embarrassing seen through her eyes? Was she worried or angry, disappointed or a little confused? 

Luther had been so nervous to show Allison his scientifically-modified, uncannily-resurrected skin, a year or so back, by his time; he’d been worried she’d flinch, seeing him, or think he was too different to hug hello. His dad had sent him on a fake mission to the moon to hide him away, it turned out, and even before he’d known it was true he used to wonder how completely things had changed. Allison still didn’t know about all that. Imagining really “catching up” with her felt like filling her arms with his failures and seeing if she’d be able to carry them all. It was possible Luther would just... never do that. What good could it even do? 

_Here’s_ a thing that could’ve been simple, if they were different people: Allison had hugged Luther hello again, just recently. Without question, without making him explain himself or turn out to be useful before he was deserving of it. In the moment, it had been enough to swallow him whole. He’d been overwhelmed; he’d hoped he hadn’t smelled too bad; he’d wondered whether he might accidentally smear barbecue sauce or blood on her cheek, and then everything would be _even more_ humiliating, somehow. 

Back again. Sort of. 

Back again, after they’d been separated in a last-ditch time travel effort while struggling to save the world from an exploded moon. And now Allison was married again... and Luther was just about to learn what “paradox psychosis” was... and their whole team had been stranded across the sixties. Luther had been homeless for a while, collecting coins in a chipped cup; he’d brought chocolates to Allison’s door, absolutely not expecting to find a husband there and shaking in his shoes. He had worked at the strip club his old boss owned, chasing scumbags out and chatting with this kind, bright-grinning woman called Autumn who’d become his friend. She called him “Luther, honey,” and wasn’t scared of him. He’d never... you know. He wasn’t one of _those_ kinds of men who had sketchy mafia ties, and had helped rig secret boxing matches under Dallas. His boss had been a good friend – had treated him like a son, he said – and Luther had handed him over fistfuls of bloody, uncounted money for an “Attaboy.” He’d done so much more for hell of a lot less, with the Umbrella Academy. He wasn’t... ugh. Was he trying to say he wasn’t a creep? But wouldn’t it be up to Allison, to decide something like that? 

It was too much. Wasn’t it? That was one thing Luther decided in the very back of the car. Just like he’d almost been too big to fit in this thing with everyone else — just like the bumper was dragging down into the pavement with him in here — it had all become so much to explain. Allison had been a Hollywood superstar. Luther had written hundreds of moon base reports he now knew had never been read. Allison had a daughter called Claire that Luther really, really hoped was waiting for her back in an un-exploded 2019. Luther had notebooks full of weird, rambly poetry he’d scribbled out while... you guessed it... on the moon. Everything had felt like too much then, too. Everything usually felt like way too much. 

Luther scoffed, hearing his boxing persona mentioned on TV. He shifted his now-familiar weight, exasperated, exhausted. Allison’s troubled look reminded him a little of a wound. If you didn’t rinse the dirt out early, the thing would only fester. If Allison had questions and he didn’t answer them, would they ever feel close again? Allison wasn’t the sort of person it was easy to imagine spending a lot of time around illegal boxing rings, surrounded by mafia-types swaying on their feet. Drunk and laughing, calling for bruises, betting on chipped teeth and adrenaline. 

Now, Luther rested his head on his arm as they drove, hunching over so Vanya could maybe see a little better out the back window. They were all on their way to help Vanya with... uh. With the lingering effects of her sonic-burning-glowy-destruction powers being used to resurrect her girlfriend’s kid? They were all sticking together, for now: a team, like they used to be. The Umbrella Academy. Team Zero. Who even knew?

Luther had said he would storm out of the car if anyone made a fat joke, when he first climbed in and heard the vehicle scream about it, felt the thing shudder. But he wondered if that was true. It probably wasn’t, especially if Allison said, “No, stay!” or Vanya gave him trusting, worried eyes. He was still thinking about Allison’s expression — still thinking about what a weird mess their lives had always been, and how hard it was for him to _speak_ completely sober — when she nudged his arm. He didn’t notice at first. He was always hitting himself on stuff; he’d had more split lips than Allison probably wanted to know about. More concussions, too. 

Allison had told Luther he looked like a mess, when they first met up again, here in the sixties. After she hugged him. She’d asked about the cuts on his face, and Luther had said he was fine, just fine. _So_ okay. As far as he knew, there was no one around who could tell her different, or let her know exactly how he’d gotten knocked around, that time. It was another long, depressing story... complicated. It was a story Luther thought Allison shouldn’t ever have to hear. 

(Between you and me, though, let’s remember that _Vanya_ knew. Vanya and Five both, but I think if anyone besides Luther’s gonna tell Allison what happened, it’s Vanya, personally.

Hit me, hit me again, Luther’d said, and he didn’t fight back. He wanted to feel the pain, in the ring when he got beat up and Vanya was watching. When he woke up and mistook her for Allison, with his foggy aching eyes. When she said, “Sorry to disappoint,” and held out some ice because he’d gotten what he asked for: he got pain, sure. 

And what do you think Allison might say, if she knew that? Even if she didn’t know why? She still screamed Luther’s name, thinking about him in pain, even after all this time. She still ran to him when he got thrown through a wall and couldn’t stand up. And he hadn’t been able to stand up in that ring, either.)

Whatever else she was to him, Allison Chestnut/Legally-in-2019-Hargreeves was Luther’s best friend. Here, in the car on the way to Vanya’s girlfriend’s farmhouse, she nudged him again. Luther stirred. 

“King Kong?” Allison whispered, wrinkling her nose, spun around in her seat. Luther creaked his eyes just a little ways open to watch her — Allison’s fingers were dangling an inch or so over the cuts on his forehead. Her own eyes were calculating, but maybe a little soft. 

(Hah. A _little_ soft, he thinks. As if just _not wanting him to be in pain_ wasn’t such a simple thing, even in the middle of everything that was much too complicated. 

A _Science Daily_ article from 2010 reported that “10-20% of boxers develop persistent neuropsychiatric impairments.” Punch-drunk. Boxer’s dementia. Maybe Allison’s read articles like that. Maybe she’s wondered what the stats would look like for them, superheroes from such a young age, too. Do you think?

That brain, that squishable grey place where Luther lived. Would it really be so strange to think Allison worried about that?)

“Yeah, uh,” Luther said. Wincing a little. And then truthfully, simply, “I dunno where to start.”

“Can you tell me about King Kong later? The _mafia_ , Luther?” Allison’s voice was so soft, and everyone else in the car was bantering (bickering?) around them. She still looked troubled, now, but open, too. She looked like whatever answer he gave her, she wasn’t going to drop him like she’d suddenly realized he was a stuffed animal with rotting cotton insides. Fire him by phone call; send him away to the moon. She’d been on his side, when they were young. She was the most important person in his world, even now. That’s why whatever he said to her mattered so damn much; that’s why he didn’t want to scare her, or look too stupid in front of her, or make her cry. Obviously. 

“Unless something else ridiculous happens and we forget, right?”

“I’m _not_ going to forget. But... that said... something ridiculous is definitely gonna happen.”

(Hah. 

Um. 

Between you and me, again: do I even have to tell you she was right?)

Luther offered her a sideways smile, and Allison pulled her hand back from where it had been hanging, almost brushing his skin but not quite there. 


End file.
